


Holy Shrines

by Novels



Series: Reprise [7]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Fluff, M/M, and a tad of swearing, book-verse, extremely dumb people in love, lots of music in this one, they're so in love they're so obvious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 10:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: Oliver and Michael visit Elio's apartment, and drama ensues. Good drama though.Also, there's a lot of talk about music in this story. And I mean a lot.





	Holy Shrines

**Author's Note:**

> Do you think there is such a thing as too much research for a single fanfic? I mean, youtube has given up suggesting anything but piano pieces. And did you know that flip phones only came out in 2004? Fascinating stuff. I really wanted to give Oliver a flip phone. He's enough of a drama queen to love flipping it open and closed. He'll get one as soon as this story reaches the new year. 
> 
> Enjoy!

I woke up in a bed that smelled like mothballs, familiar and yet not at all what I was expecting. 

It took me a moment to remember I was in New York, in my parents' seldom used flat, in a bed I had made haphazardly the night before, before exhaustion got the best of me and put me to sleep.

It was quite early in the morning, early enough that most other days I would have gone back to sleep without thinking about it twice, but I was feeling well-rested, more awake than usual, and I knew there was no way I could lie in bed for much longer without feeling restless.

I grabbed some fresh clothes from my suitcase and went to find some coffee. I had a free morning ahead of me and I planned to make the best out of it. I felt an itch to sit at my grand piano, an old family heirloom. It was not the best piano I owned, but it was a treasured possession -- and anyway, I just felt like playing, any instrument would do. 

The trip to the coffee shop was quick, the streets still mostly empty, the queue virtually non-existent. I walked back to the flat sipping my coffee, not really tasting it, my mind already focused on the music. 

I had a concert coming up in a few weeks and the setlist was one of the most challenging I had put together so far. I was particularly excited about performing at La Scala. The audience in Milan was always demanding -- hard to please, brutal in their judgment -- but the exclusivity of the venue had inspired me to give my very best. At 37, I was aware I was one of the most accomplished performers in the world. Critics wrote lavish pages on my art, my concerts were always sold out in a matter of minutes, my compositions were international successes. I had tried very hard not to let that knowledge get to my head. My performances were very rarely self-indulgent, even less often self-celebratory. Whenever I played for an audience, art came first, the audience second, and I came last. Whatever I decided to play was chosen with a specific audience in mind, with the necessity of beauty being on stage with me, through my fingers, in mind. In the rare occasions when I actually thought about why I had reached such a level of accomplishment as a pianist, I did find an answer in the absolute respect I felt for my art. Music had been my companion for longer than I could remember. It had helped me through the hardest times in my life, it had marked out my happiest memories. I had a melody for every person I had ever loved. Whenever I sat at the piano, fingers stroking the keys, it felt like a conversation. 

Too often I met pianists who had mastered the instrument, who could play the hardest pieces ever written for piano and still leave me unsatisfied. I could not blame them of playing without passion. You needed passion to achieve the level of perfection most of them displayed. No, passion was not the issue. What I felt was lacking was the deep interaction with the piece they were performing. That intimate connection I felt when I approached a new composition, when I transcribed it to get to know it better, when I researched the composer to understand what made him create that specific piece. When I played a piece the first few times, stumbling upon its complex passages, gliding through the swift ones.

I had the impression most pianists were taught to master a composition, to have full command of it, and to be proud of such control. Seeing them perform a complex piece felt like watching a boxing competition, them against the music, harnessing the notes, beating them into submission. I don't think I have never mastered a piece in the strictest sense. I never felt the need to obtain control over any composition. Music cannot be harnessed, it can only be understood, and reproduced. 

I liked to think of myself as an interpreter, the medium through which a secret language could be understood by the audience. 

I thought about that as I walked back to the flat, as I opened the windows to change the air, as I cleaned away the dust from the piano and sat down with the score for Alkan's _ Concerto for Piano Solo _, eager to get lost in its intricateness.

It was a long piece, of absurd difficulty, and not many pianists dared to add it to their repertoires. Normally, I would not perform something so complex for a live audience -- not only was it a challenging piece to play, it was hard to listen to as well. But I felt a deep connection to Alkan, who had often preferred isolation to company, who had equally suffered and rejoiced greatly in life, and whose Jewish heritage could be at times detected in his works. 

I sat at the piano for hours, getting lost in the music, forgetting the world outside, focusing only on the precision of my fingers on the keys. 

I only stopped when my stomach growled and I realised it was time to get some lunch. Oliver and Michael would be here soon. Would it feel weird, I wondered, to have them in my parents' flat? Would the conversation feel stilted, with too many things unspoken? How hard would it be to keep the truth from spilling out? 

Doubt seeped through my mind, mixed with buzzing anticipation. I had refrained from thinking about yesterday too much, but there was no denying the muted excitement that had hummed in the background of my thoughts from the moment I woke up, the sound of endless possibilities and of pure, unrestrained fulfillment. Of unadulterated delight in having reached completion, in having reunited with the missing part of my very being.

I missed Oliver -- old habits are hard to break. Was he missing me, too? I couldn't wait to be in his arms again, our skins touching, our hearts beating in tandem. 

I paddled through thoughts of Oliver smiling at me, Oliver kissing me, Oliver touching me, as I grabbed a sandwich and something to drink from the store at the end of the street. Oliver, Oliver, Oliver. He stayed with me as I ate, as I tidied a room that needed to tidying, as I sat down at my piano again to distract myself. 

Once I started, it was impossible to stop thinking about him. I revelled in memories that had lost their pang now that he was mine again, he was me again. All those moments under the Italian sun that time had dimmed to a pale smoulder were back in full brightness, just like a medieval madonna restored to its timeless beauty. Holy shrines of something ever so delicate, ever so precious.

I was brought back to reality by the doorbell ringing and I tried to school myself in the few moments it took them to get to my floor. 

"Hello," I said, and it came out way too breathy, as if the air had been knocked out of me. Oliver's smile was indeed breathtaking. His eyes twinkled as he looked at me and the moment stretched for longer than it was perhaps supposed to. I had to fight with my body not to reach out and drag him into a hug, into an endless kiss. Instead, I took a step back and let Oliver and Michael in. 

I led them into the living room, where the piano took up most of the space, and we chatted away a bit, them sitting on the sofa, me sitting on the bench of the piano, drinking juice, Michael asking question after question about music. I could feel he sincerely loved playing, and I found myself actually enjoying telling him stories about past concerts, about all the superstitions that surrounded a performance, about that crazy soprano I had to work with for an entire season. 

We talked about learning music, and I ended up telling him about passion not being enough, sometimes, about needing to talk with the music to actually get to know it. 

Michael seemed to mull it over, nodding quietly."That's what makes you a great interpreter, right? You cannot just love something, you have to understand it to be able to -- to tell its story."

"Quite so, quite so," I answered, stunned once again by his perceptiveness. I could see Oliver looking at his son with pride, so open and sincere. I wanted him to look at me the same way, without having to hide his feelings, without having to weigh the consequences of our emotions showing. "Would you like to play for us, Michael? I did promise you'd like this piano."

He hesitated, looking at his father. "Could you play something for us first? I've only heard you play on CD."

"Sure, any preferences?" 

Michael shook his head and Oliver shrugged. "Anything will sound wonderful when it's you playing it, Elio," he told me, and I had to suppress a shiver as the deep tones of his voice washed over me. I turned to the piano to hide my face, sure the desire would be unmistakable. I considered what to play. I wanted it to be something significant, but not grandiose. Ah, yes. He wouldn't know, I thought, as my fingers traced the familiar notes of Poulenc's _Improvisation for Edith Piaf_. He hadn't been there to hear this. But I was revisiting the anticipation I had felt as I waited for midnight to come, as I waited for him to return, for our guests to leave. 

They applauded softly when the music ended.

"What was it?" asked Michael. "I've never heard it before."

I told him. "It's not particularly famous or hard, but it is a favourite of mine. Your turn now. Play anything you like, please."

I took Michael's seat next to Oliver as he started playing and I felt Oliver's arm stretch along the headrest, his hand cradling the back of my head. I glanced at him, nervous his son might realise he was touching me, but he was listening to the music with a peaceful smile, and he just winked at me when he noticed the worry in my eyes.

I let myself relax, enjoying the music, appreciating the way Michael played. He was indeed quite good, sincere in his interpretation. He had a lot of potential, he could consider becoming a professional. 

Oliver was threading his fingers through my hair, fingertips massaging my nape. I felt my eyes flutter closed, my body melt into the sensation. Such a little touch, such an inconsequential gesture. I felt my skin tingle, longing for more, and swallowed a moan. I wanted to feel ashamed for being so receptive to his touch, so ready to respond to it even with his child in the same room, but I couldn't quite find it in me to care. 

I was somewhat saved from embarrassment by Oliver's mobile. Its metallic ringtone clashed with the sonata Michael was playing, and Oliver rushed to the other room to answer it, the ghost of his hand still on the back of my head. He returned a few minutes later, looking uncertain. 

"Your mother's stuck at work and asked me to pick your brother up from basketball," he told his son. "We better get going."

Michael didn't look particularly pleased by the idea. 

"Would you like to stay here and play some more while Oliver picks your brother up?" I asked on a hunch. "I could show you some new pieces I've been working on, I wouldn't mind some honest feedback on them."

"Oh, that would be amazing, Mr. Perlman! You can come back with Jesse and then he and I can take the subway home together, we've done that a thousand times."

Oliver frowned slightly, looking at me. "Are you sure it won't be a problem if I leave Michael here for a bit? I should be back in about half an hour."

"I did offer, didn't I?" I replied, trying to sound confident about this. "This way I'll also meet your youngest."

Oliver nodded, still not looking entirely convinced. "Behave," he told his son, who looked positively affronted by the idea he could ever be anything but a perfect guest. "I'll be right back."

I showed him out of the flat and returned to the living room, where Michael was browsing through a stack of scores I had placed next to the piano.

"You play extremely complicated music, Mr. Perlman," he said, eyes scanning Alkan's piece. I nodded, going back to the sofa. 

"Please, do call me Elio," I reminded him. "But yes. That might very well be one of the most complicated pieces I've ever tried playing. Very satisfying when you get it all right, though."

"You must like a challenge," he said, looking at me directly. I suddenly felt under scrutiny.

"It's not really about the challenge, more about the reward for the commitment," I answered, and I wondered if our conversation was still only about music. I tried to make sure it was. "You haven't finished the sonata, would you like to continue playing it?" 

He nodded, still looking at me with surprising intensity. I suppressed the urge to squirm. Michael was just a kid, and Oliver and I had been particularly cautious around him, hadn't we?

He started playing again and I relaxed a fraction. I made a few mental notes about ways he could improve his execution of the piece, thinking of a few more compositions he might like to learn. Michael got to the end of the sonata and let his hands rest on his knees.

"Dad seems very happy to be around you."

I froze on the spot. His words felt very neutral, just a casual remark. He surely couldn't be implying anything. Oliver's children didn't even know their father liked men. 

I mumbled a noncommittal sound. "We haven't seen each other for a very long time. It's always good to catch up with a friend."

Michael stared at me with a bit of a frown. He seemed to be debating something with himself.

"You were more than friends, though, right?"

I felt the color drain from my face. I must have looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. I was certainly at a loss for words. This was not the conversation I was expecting to have with Oliver's son, the day after I managed to get back with his father after twenty years of pining. And it was certainly not my place to out him to his family, no matter how damn intuitive they seemed to be. 

"I am making you uncomfortable, Mr. Perlman. Elio," Michael said before I could come up with anything vaguely resembling an answer. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's just -- you don't have to pretend around me. I, uh -- I've known for years about you and dad. I've found his letters one time I was in his office at the university." At least he looked sheepish. "He left me there alone for two hours, I was bored."

I let out the breath I hadn't realised I was holding, and it came out half as a sigh, half as a laugh. I rubbed my eyes, trying to collect my thoughts, trying to come up with something to say.

"It's complicated, Michael," was what I settled for. It felt absolutely inadequate, and his expression told me he was of the exact same opinion. I tried again. "It was a long time ago, we were both very young, and we were both very different. I truly haven't seen your father for almost twenty years."

"And was it nice to catch up?"

"Well, yes, of course it was."

Oliver's evil, evil child had the courage to wiggle his eyebrows at me and smirk. "Was it really?"

"Oh my God! You did not go there just now," I muttered, covering my burning face behind my hands. For fuck's sake, what did sixteen-year-old kids get up to these days?! "Why would you even ask that? Would you really want to know? And anyway, what makes you think your father and I are back together?" I asked, trying to cut my losses.

"I would like to say it was the smitten expression on my dad's face every time he looked at you, but really it was the huge hickey he has on the back of his neck. I don't think he has realised it is there, if it makes you feel better." 

"Oh my God, oh God, no, it really doesn't." How did I end up being completely flustered on my parents' sofa, with a teenager laughing at me because apparently my -- and Oliver's -- ability to dissimulate had not improved since our short time together in Italy? How was this my life? Alright, time to man up and remove my hands from my face. Looking at Michael in that moment took a lot of effort, but somehow I managed to hold his gaze. 

"You seem quite OK with this happening," I told him, after taking a few breaths to calm myself. He shrugged and looked away. "Mom and dad have been miserable for a long time, and now dad isn't. I really don't see why I shouldn't be OK with this."

"You are quite an extraordinary young man, Michael," I told him, and meant it. "Please don't you ever put me in a situation like this again, though."

He laughed, and that cleaned the air. I was still a bit shell-shocked, I had to admit, but Michael seemed to be rather unfazed by all this. 

"You did mention you wanted an honest opinion on something new you were working on, after all."

I had to roll my eyes at his clever rebuke. I stood and moved to the bench next to Michael. I placed my fingers on the piano and looked at him.

"Do your very best," I told him, and I started playing. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Guys, thank you for reading! Here's a link to Alken's Concerto, and here's another [link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmxsoi1Xeug) to Poulenc's Improvisation for Edith Piaf, which is the piece Elio is playing for Isaac and Mounir when Oliver returns.  
I'll try to update the story in the next few days <3


End file.
